


The Orchid

by kleine_aster



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Angst, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non Consensual, Orgasm Control, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 04:58:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kleine_aster/pseuds/kleine_aster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's one of those AUs where all the lovely boys are kept as sex slaves in an underground brothel. (I made Hurt the brothel owner because he's my favorite DCU sadist.) Bruce is a reluctant client, <i>or is he</i>?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Orchid

**Author's Note:**

> GUYS I DON'T KNOW. I wanna go on record saying that I crossed my personal good taste border with this. I was almost tempted to submit it anon somewhere, but then I also kinda wanted my name on it because I'm weirdly fond of it. I might even write more in this 'verse, because I … like it?  
>  **NOTE:** The boys are all around the same age in this, but specifics aren't given.

"Now, this one's usually very lively," Hurt tells him in a chipper tone, poking the strung-up boy in front of them with his customized cattle prod, "I'm deeply sorry I can't demonstrate it right now. A client has asked us to prepare him this way." He turns around to his visitor with an easy smile. "And, you know, my client's wishes always come first."

The tall, solemn man next to him nods, while he feels bile slowly running backwards down his throat.

He tells himself he's here strictly for investigative reasons. He's been telling himself that every step of the way it's taken him to close in on The Orchid.

The Orchid is a very exclusive establishment, most people don't know it exists. In order to find it, you have to acquire a business card made of pure ivory on the black market, a business card that's so expensive it's costs would sustain a small country for half a year. And it's made of ivory, the part of a precious, endangered animal, to emphasize the decadence of the place, and probably its cruelty, too.

The owner, Dr Hurt (it is entirely unclear where his doctorate is supposed to be from), is a tall elegant man who dresses like a slightly updated Victorian dandy. Instead of a walking cane, he carries a custom-made cattle prod, which, as he assures Bruce, "is not lethal to human beings."

Hurt doesn't have that many boys, it is said, but they are so exquisite, so well-kept, that it's worth the price of admission.

Bruce Wayne, whose name is Hemingford Grey tonight, tells himself he didn't come because he wants those boys. He can't, because it would be wrong and perverse of him. He locks that sick part of himself away, he fights those urges, even though he knows that his crusade against crime, down to every criminal he locks up, is his way to pay it forward because he suspects that, one day, he's going to do something very bad.

He takes a deep breath and looks at the boy and pretends that his cock is not responding to what he's seeing. He's very young and very beautiful. His lean body forms a clean X on the bed, his hands and feet tied to its posts, stretched to their limits. Every inch of him is covered in a soft sheen of fresh, fragrant sweat, and Bruce can _tell_ he's very lively, because despite his predicament, he's almost _vibrating_ on the damp sheets, high-strung, every muscle taut with desperate arousal. His cock has been teased until so painfully hard that it almost hurts to look at it, as it helplessly twitches against his belly, precome dribbling down its length. At the same time, the expertly made weights around his balls make it impossible for him to reach orgasm. Whenever he makes a noise (which is not often), it sounds so hollow and weak that Bruce can tell he's been screaming before someone gagged him. The dried-up streaks around his eyes indicate that there have been tears, too.

His face seems very pretty, but it's hard to tell right now with the ball gag in his mouth and his bright blue eyes rolled up in mindless exertion.

Bruce Wayne has seen many things in the line of his work, but this, this even stirs his dulled sense of empathy; along with something else.

He clears his throat. "How long has he been like this?" He asks, doing his best to sound only casually interested.

"Longer that he likes," Hurt replies light-heartedly, but then hurries to say, "But not so long as to make him sick, I wouldn't want that. We need him intact, of course. He'll only have to hold out until tomorrow morning, when the client arrives. The client's been very specific about what he wanted. We were supposed to edge him as intensely as possible, so I've had a group of other clients use him today, in every way that they wanted, only of course he hasn't been permitted to come. We've made sure it didn't occur. Of course, I expect _this_ –"

He gives the boy's rigid cock and tiny slap with his prod, and gets a muffled, frenzied roar in return.

"To go soft a couple of times during the night, no-one can stay hard for that long – not even at his age, am I right? – but I'll have someone come in early and see to that he's ready for his big day tomorrow, won't you, Dick?"

"His name is Dick?"

Somehow, learning the name of the tied-up bundle in front of him makes him uncomfortable. 

"Isn't that hilarious," the brothel owner replies, then zaps the boy's left nipple with his prod, presumably simply because he can.

The boy whose name is Dick convulses with another hoarse cry, and they watch him twist and turn his slender limbs in every possible direction in an attempt to free himself, which is, of course, futile. However, it prompts his handler to say, "Oh, he's _very_ flexible. And he's been trained at a _very_ early age, you wouldn't _believe_ the things he can do." His hand on Bruce's arm is very unwelcome. "Promise me, Mr Grey, you _have_ to come back another time and try him, you will not regret it."

He nods his head as if he's listening, but he can't take his eyes off the kid. Dick is lying still now, every bit of leftover energy spent, and he can see a fresh tear roll down his face, accompanied by a sob.

"Go ahead, touch him," he's kindly invited. "He's got great skin. You need to feel it."

He doesn't know why, but he does. He isn't sure where, so he gently places his hand on the boy's tightened stomach. His skin is warm, smooth, and slick with sweat. Dick squirms away from his touch as if he's expecting another round of cruel teasing, but at the same time, Bruce can tell that every nerve in his body is screaming to be touched, caressed, toyed with, to be finally allowed his release.

He takes his hand off of him as if he's burned himself on something hot. "Whatever it is the client is paying you," he hears himself say. "I'm willing to double it if you let me have him _right now_."

He wants nothing more than relieve the boy from his torment. Perhaps it's because he is, deep down, a compassionate man. Or perhaps it's because the boy is truly, really beautiful, and he really wants him.

Hurt looks at him in surprise. "Oh, you can _have_ him," he says, as if that was obvious, "It'd be my pleasure! Like I said, in any way you want. I'll only have to ask you not to let him come. My client has been very much looking forward to milking him, what would he say if he found him all dried-up tomorrow? I do not break promises to customers. What kind of a man would that make me?"

Bruce stares at him, teeth grinding, and resists answering that honestly. "I hope I've made myself clear. Money is not the issue. I can match, and double, any offer you have on him."

He wants to take off that boy's restraints, and he wants to be kind and gentle with him. That's all he wants. He wants that even more than to be inside him, which is _also_ something he wants.

The brothel owner gives him an almost pitying smile. "He's precious, isn't he. But sadly, no. You said it yourself, _money_ is not an issue when it comes to men like _us_."

Bruce tries not to shudder at that, while Hurt speaks on with Dick's choked sobs as a subtle backdrop.

"It's trust. What men like us need is trust. So therefore, I will not disappoint a good customer. My apologies. But," he puts his arm around his broad shoulders and subtly guides him away, as if he's afraid that Bruce will start fingering his precious merchandise, after all. "But I am confident that we can find something else you'll enjoy. First, let's have a drink. Follow me."

Bruce casts a last look at Dick squirming quietly on the bed before the door closes behind them.

On the outside, The Orchid is an unremarkable building in a charmless back alley (of course it is), but on the inside, it is as lavishly decorated as a small Victorian palace. Bruce's trained eye immediately realizes that every piece is antique and original, painstakingly chosen. Dr Hurt may be a complete sadist, but he also has excellent taste, and it's on display in every room.

His host rings a tiny bell once they reach the salon.

"I never even planned to make this a business, you see," he tells Bruce while they sit down at the fireplace. "I'm independently wealthy, I don't need it. I have this little menagerie for my own amusement, but certain people seemed very interested in it, so I decided to combine the useful with the pleasant." He looks up to shoot Bruce a cold shark smile. "But this is also why I vet my clients very thoroughly – oh, there he is."

The door opens, and another pretty dark-haired boy walks in. He looks even younger than Dick, but that might be because he's especially dainty and pale. He wears something a page might wear, but compared to what he's witnessed in the other room, Bruce finds his appearance almost calmingly normal. However, he too has a strange, haunted look in his sunken eyes.

Hurt seems to find offense with that. He tuts. "You do not look your best today, Timothy. Shame. We have company, you see."

"I'm sorry," the boy says. He sounds polite, but there's a hoarse scratch in his voice. Apparently, there is a lot of screaming going on within these walls.

"This is Tim, and he does not usually look like shit," Hurt says disapprovingly, then gestures toward Bruce. "Tim, this Sir Hemingford Grey. Say hello to our guest."

The boy turns to greet him. He doesn't smile, but his little bow is perfectly executed. "A pleasure to meet you, Sir."

Bruce watches him closely; there's something off about him. Every gesture seems flawlessly studied, but something about his movements is tense and stiff, almost mechanical. Anxious. As if he's fearing a hammer coming down on him at any second. His pretty blue eyes might have been bright once, but they're red-rimmed and drab now. His delicate fingers are twitching, like he's fighting the urge to ball them into fists. His lips are trembling slightly.

"Would you like me to serve the drinks now?" He asks, and every word seems accompanied by a tiny shiver. He awkwardly clears his throat, and Bruce sees him slip a hand into his pocket to hide the shaking.

For some reason, Hurt slips his hand into his own pocket, as well. "What else would I want you for?" He muses. "What's your poison, Grey?"

"Whisky neat," Bruce replies, still watching Tim. Bruce doesn't drink alcohol, but it's not as if he's going to drink _anything_ that Hurt serves him, anyway.

"Good choice," the brothel owner enthuses. "Tell him about our Whisky selection, Tim."

"We h-have, _ungh_." The boy flinches and clears his throat again, and his face is suddenly flushing as if he has a fever. The slight shaking now takes over his entire body, and his eyes look even more dazed than before, though still unquestionably haunted.

He tries to fulfill his task, however. "W-we have an eight year old Glenlivet," he recites unsteadily, "And … and a twelve year old Dalwhinnie and a very … good … fifteen year old Macall -"

He gasps for air, biting his lip and looking supremely uncomfortable. Bruce only now notices the hard outline of his erection in his pants, and suddenly understands what Hurt is doing in his pocket.

"The _Glenlivet_ , really," his host says smoothly, while he makes the boy squirm and twitch in front of them, "That 30-dollar abortion is your first suggestion? I thought I taught you better than this. Are you trying to poison Mr Grey?"

"N-no," the boy squeezes out with some effort, and then, seemingly for no reason, "P-please …"

"Macallan," Bruce says, when he decides he's not going to watch this anymore, "I'll take the Macallan. Neat. Thank you."

Hurt seems quite disappointed about the interruption, but he lets it slide. "Merlot. The 1917 one," he barks at his cringing boy servant. "Get out of my sight."

"Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir," the boy gasps, and ducks out of the room.

"You've something inside him, haven't you," Bruce says dryly, once they're alone again.

Hurt chuckles, pleased with himself, and finally releases his hand from his pocket along with the small device he's holding. "Only a tiny remote-controlled vibrator," he admits with a shrug, "And I mean the _tiniest_. That one's a virgin, you see. I'm holding a silent auction to see who's going to break him in, and I made an effort to _not_ prepare his ass too well, because I want the winner to have that true, painful, messy virginal experience, you know."

He smiles at Bruce as if that was somehow perfectly natural. "He's fun to toy with," he then admits. "Not much staying power, that one, honestly. But fun." He pauses and crinkles his nose. "Why do we have _Glenlivet_ ," he mutters to himself. "Sheesh."

He shakes his head, but turns back to business quick. "You can place an offer on him. The auction is still running." He waves his hand dismissively in the direction that Tim has scurried off to. "If that … intrigued you in any way. He's having an off day, truly. He doesn't _usually_ look like a violated corpse." He turns Tim's remote in his hand. "Probably shouldn't have done that with him all week -"

"I'll place a bid," Bruce says.

He's never deflowered a boy before, but he trusts that he can probably do it less painfully than any of the other maniacs that Hurt has on his guest list. At least he likes to believe he does.

The other man's eyes light up mischievously, "Oh, excellent! You _do_ recognize a diamond in the rough when you see one", he compliments him, before he reaches for a piece of exquisite-looking parchment and a pen that he has ready next to his armchair. "Like I said, I do not need the money, but it flatters me to see what kind of price people are willing to pay for my merchandise. It's a sort of collector's pride, you see?"

He hands it over to Bruce, then leans back with a satisfied smirk.

"Make it generous," he adds helpfully. "Really, I'll _never_ let that little runt find out how much certain men are ready to shill out for the privilege of raping him. He'd grow so arrogant." Hurt chuckles softly.

Bruce tries to zone out his voice while he puts down a number he feels confident in; he only scribbles the first figure before he realizes he's writing in human blood. He wonders whose blood it is; it is probably not Hurt's.

He's about to finish writing when a loud, disruptive noise echoes through the entire house. It sounds like someone throwing themselves against a metal door with all their might. It's eerie, but it stops as fast as it started.

Bruce shoots his host a curious look. "What was that?"

For the first time since he's met him, Dr Hurt looks genuinely disgruntled. "A failed experiment," he mutters.

"Oh? Tell me about it," Bruce prompts him, handing him the sheet of paper with his bid to brighten his mood. He wants to learn as much about The Orchid as possible.

Hurt sighs. "Well," he starts, pressing his long fingers together. "That _used_ to be a very promising Arabian boy I collected. You saw what I did with Dick? Well, I tried something similar with this boy, but … on a more thorough scale." Fortunately (or unfortunately), Hurt needs no further incentive to lay out what he did, since he seems to enjoy talking about his pets.

"You see, with this one, I did allow him to come, but I made sure from the start that I'd only give him spoiled orgasms. I trust you know what those are? An ejaculation that's not enjoyable -"

Bruce nods. He's been able to avoid them most of the time, but the memory alone makes him cringe. Even no orgasm was preferable to a spoiled orgasm.

"That's what I did with him, combined with some intense administration of pain and sensory deprivation. My goal was to have him unlearn what pleasure is, until pain would be all he knew. However…" Hurt's gaunt face drops, and he looks wistful, as if he's mourning a soufflé that went bad in the oven. "I _think_ I might have driven him insane. He's turned … _feral_. Volatile. He scratches and _bites_ and worse, and not in that fun way. I'm afraid he's ruined. I can't turn him loose – he'll probably murder someone – so I'm keeping him in a basement room, with a chastity device of course, because he claws himself bloody otherwise, it's all a huge mess – oh well." He shrugs, then graces Bruce with an apologetic smile. "Even a maestro is allowed a failure from time to time, is he not?"

At that moment, Tim returns, anxiously clutching his silver tablet with the drinks, which is a relief, since Bruce does not know how to respond to that.

Hurt's eyes focus on him right away. "Well. You've been idle," he scolds him.

Tim shoots him a wounded look, and Bruce immediately knows that his handler must've played around with the remote while they were talking, making the boy's task fairly difficult.

"I…have been pouring carefully," the boy mumbles as an explanation. But he musters a timid smile for Bruce when he hands him his drink. "Here you go, Sir -"

Hurt catches him smiling, and pounces on that human moment at once. Bruce sees him turn something up on the tiny remote, and then he sees the boy's eyes widen in shock and embarrassment, though not exactly surprise.

"No-oh," he whispers, but of course that won't save him. He whimpers, and then he groans when his body grows as stiff as a board. His pale cheeks get flushed again and his fingers are helplessly twitching against his slender thighs, and then he empties the contents of his balls into his pants, right in front of the two older men. His pants are too dark to see the wet stain in the front, but Bruce knows it's there. The boy looks so spent that Bruce wonders how many times Hurt has pulled that little trick with him today.

Hurt, apparently, wonders the same thing. "How many pairs of pants have you ruined today, boy?" He inquires in a cold, stern voice.

Tim briefly rests his shaky hand on the armrest of Bruce's chair when he steadies himself. He stares at the floorboards so intently as if he might never look up again. He collects his breath. But then, he obediently replies, "F-five."

"Hrm." Hurt mulls it over. "That's … not as many as I expected." He frowns at his remote. "Maybe _I_ have been idle …"

"I'd like to go change, please," the boy whispers, which, considering how he's been treated, seems like a pretty bold request.

Hurt smiles at him, sweetly. "Kindly shut your trap when grown men are speaking. Mr Grey was about to tell me what he thinks of our lovely home. Weren't you, Mr Grey? Will we see you return?"

When he faces Bruce again he's wearing a smug smile, and Bruce knows that Hurt is counting on him to express how impressed he is in front of Tim.

However. Bruce has been looking forward to doing this for a while now. He takes the glass of whisky, makes as if he's taking a sip, puts it down again, and chooses his words meticulously.

"I've got to admit, my dear Doctor," he says, and sees the other man's smile widen. "As a businessman myself – sadly, I have to tell you that your pitch is _weak_."

Wiping that smile off Hurt's face is the first time he doesn't feel like hell in this place. Next to him, Tim looks terrified, as if insulting his owner's establishment will loop right back to him … which it probably will.

Bruce talks on. "I mean, please." Now it's his turn to wave his hand in dismissal. "So far, you have shown me _two_ boys – both of which, I must add, are indeed very lovely – "

He looks up at Tim, but the boy doesn't react, face tense and hollow. Bruce understands. He's probably used to men complimenting his appearance, and there obviously isn't any good coming from it.

"- but neither of which I can have. Then you told me of a third boy who is essentially useless. Not only is your line-up small, it's also unavailable. It makes me wonder why I came here tonight." He gives Hurt a thin-lipped smile, hoping to provoke him into revealing more about his business. "I seem to remember you saying something about not disappointing clients…?"

Hurt looks as if he wants to claw Bruce's face off for a moment – which he probably does – but then he smiles again, only several degrees colder this time.

"Well, in all fairness, you _did_ come on short notice," he points out. "In an establishment like this, it's always better to make reservations – for future reference, Mr Grey. However, I _do_ have something for you. You didn't think I'd let you leave without a sample, did you?"

He shakes his finger at Bruce in a gesture of familiarity and intimacy that Bruce hates.

"Yes, I'm confident you will like this one," he says amiably. "I'll win you over yet. You'll see." He gets out of his chair. "I'll go fetch him for you."

Before he leaves, he places Tim's remote control in Bruce's hand. "In the meantime, enjoy."

An awkward silence falls while Bruce waits for Hurt to return, in the presence of poor little Tim. The boy says nothing, he barely moves, not comfortable to stay put with a strange man, but too intimidated to leave. Bruce can hear him draw flat, anxious breaths by his side. Sometimes, his eyes nervously dart toward the remote in Bruce's hands, expecting him to start toying with him at any moment. But whenever Bruce catches him looking, he quickly looks away.

Bruce is tempted to use the device.

He does not.

After a moment, the boy addresses him in a shy whisper. "You haven't been drinking, Sir," he observes. His voice is curious but timid, as if he's expecting punishment.

"Sharp," Bruce tells him. Tim is obviously not sure what to do with that kind of encouragement, bites his lip, and says nothing.

Bruce makes a quick decision. He puts the full glass of whisky back onto the tray. "Take this," he tells Tim quietly, "Take it, and throw it out. Don't let him know." He looks up at him, then puts the remote on the table in front of him, indicating that he's not about to use it. "Please do that for me, Tim. When he comes back, I will tell him I've finished my drink and allowed you to go. You won't get in trouble for it."

The boy seems a little thrilled to be cheating on his master by throwing out the whisky. However, he doesn't look convinced. Bruce doesn't blame him. Tim has no reason to trust him. It could all be a play to make him do something wrong, then humiliate him further. However, disobeying a potential customer was probably worse.

"Will do, Sir," he finally says, collecting the tray. His movements seem a little awkward, due to the mess in his pants and the device still stuck inside him, but professional nonetheless. 

He looks relieved to be permitted his leave, and Bruce immediately knows that he won't tell on him.

Tim shoots him another unsure, but sincere smile before he backs out with the tablet. Apparently his willingness to trust someone is not dead yet.

Once he's alone, Bruce gets up and approaches the door that Hurt has disappeared through. The good Doctor hasn't closed it – makes sense, considering he's so proud to share all his dirty secrets always – and he can hear him hiss at someone through another open door in the corridor.

"I said get off your cheap, lazy ass," he says, the whole thin veneer of sophistication gone while he addresses another youthful employee. "There's one more."

There's a pause, and then a morose, teenage voice replies, "'m tired. There's been many today."

The protest comes affectless and flat, like the boy knows it's going to be ignored; it's merely a formality.

"You can sleep once you inevitably get beaten to death in a gutter somewhere," Hurt informs him, "Until that day, you're working for me. And put that disgusting thing out. I said no smoking. I'll make you sit on a _knife_ if I catch you again, my friend. And for fuck's sake, take a shower before you present yourself, you're _covered_ in it."

There's another slight pause, and then the teenager says, "You're not my friend," and Bruce suspects that Hurt is right; he _will_ like this one.

"Five minutes. He's waiting," Hurt barks, and Bruce quickly moves back to his chair before his host returns.

Soon, they sit across from each other again, waiting for Bruce's sample to arrive.

"Do your boys … do they sometimes play with each other…?" He asks after a while.

His face grows hot. There's no investigative reason to ask this, and he knows it.

"Heavens, no," Hurt mutters, still disgruntled by his exchange with the fourth boy apparently. "Sure, I did catch them … _fondling_ each other a couple times." He turns up his nose again, as if such a display of spontaneous desire and affection was somehow inherently disgusting. "But be assured that I punished them severely. Heaven forbid they start thinking that their bodies are for _their_ pleasure."

Bruce wants to gouge his eyes out. But he keeps calm, and waits.

It really only takes a little more than five minutes until the boy shows up, freshly showered and in a t-shirt and jeans, with damp, dark hair sticking to his skin. He's a little coarser in face and body than the two others were, but his smile is brave, a little brazen even, and Bruce does indeed like him on sight.

He turns to Bruce and addresses him without apprehension, or at least with carefully hidden apprehension. "What's your name?" He asks, still smiling.

Bruce tells him his fake name, and the boy walks over to shake his hand. It's obvious that he really is tired, more than tired. Actually, only willpower seems to keep him on his feet. His eyes are as sunken as Tim's, and perhaps even redder.

"Nice to meet you, I'm Jason," he says. "Lookin' forward to get to know you."

That's a flat-out lie, but admirably presented, a little cheeky, even; this one really is a trooper.

Bruce's voice is hoarse. He's never felt as gross in his life as he does now, when he replies, "Me too."

"It's a match," Hurt chirps from the sidelines. Bruce wants to pummel his face in. The look on Jason's strung-out face briefly indicates he wants the same thing. But he stays right on message.

"So I, uh, could show you some of the rooms and stuff, if you want," he offers. There's something unrefined about him that's quite charming. "And you tell me what you wanna do – "

In an absent-minded gesture, he brushes back his messy dark hair, a movement that causes the neckline of his shirt to drop, and that's when Bruce sees it.

And Hurt sees it too.

"What's _that_ ," he hisses, in a tone that indicates that the boy is all but dead.

Jason looks startled. Then devastated. He grows even paler than he was anyway, and all cockiness leaves him as fear creeps into his eyes. In a matter of seconds, he's as downtrodden and terrified as the other boys have been.

"Sorry," he mumbles to Bruce, covering his throat with his hand, but it's too late to hide the broad, vicious, purple choke marks on it. "I – " He turns to the fuming Doctor, and starts tittering. "D-don't act surprised! You knew who was here today, and you _knew_ he did the choking thing, because he _always_ does the choking thing, _you knew that_ -"

It's an attempt to argue in his defense, but it comes out like a yammering plea for mercy.

Hurt is really not interested in Jason's adventures in violent strangulation. "And you couldn't think of wearing your _collar_ over it, you _imbecile_?" He asks in a low, dangerous whisper. " _This_ is how you choose to present yourself? You can't even think far enough to consider that, maybe, Mr Grey doesn't want to see that, you _stupid animal_?"

"You said I should _hurry_ ," Jason whispers at him, tears edging in his voice. "You said to drag myself out here, you said five minutes – "

"Stop embarrassing me." His handler's voice arrives at sub-zero, while his fingers close around his cane. "Stop. Now."

While they're arguing, Bruce studies the boy with interest. Shortly before Hurt can give him a painful zap with his cattle prod, as he's about to do, Bruce says, "Jason."

They both turn around to him. "Yeah…?" The kid replies, eyeing him warily.

"Take your shirt off for me," Bruce tells him politely. There's something he wants to know.

Jason looks so openly embarrassed at that, Bruce almost takes it back. The boy's eyes are very clearly pleading him to, but he's too smart to actually plead out loud.

"Aw man," he finally whines, but then he pulls his shirt up over his head.

Bruce stares at him, and tries not to have a visible reaction.

He's working with the criminal element, therefore he is used to seeing wounds, but it's rare he sees so many on one body, and such a young one at that. Jason's upper body is essentially scars over bruises over scars, some fading, some healing, some fresh. Bruce sees whiplashes, cigarette burns, cuts. The boy's right nipple is mangled almost beyond recognition, surrounded by something that looks suspiciously like electrical burns. Bruce won't humiliate him further by asking him to take off his pants, but he's sure the lower half of his body probably doesn't look better.

Jason reflexively raises his arms to cover some of himself when he feels Bruce's eyes on him. He tries to look petulant rather than ashamed, but it's not fooling anyone. His lower lip his wibbling.

The next person to speak is Hurt, when he says to him, "Well, people like to hurt him. There's something in his nature that invites it."

He turns to Bruce. "But he's supposed to cover that up," he tells him, as if he himself can't believe the level of incompetence he's dealing with. "He's _not_ supposed to come out like that. He has the best available make-up at his disposal, I spend a fortune on it, but obviously, he's too _dumb_ –"

Jason yelps when, instead of zapping him, Hurt smacks the cane across his knee. He drops to the ground, howling in pain.

"- to follow the _simplest_ rules."

Bruce watches Hurt's sneer, watches the boy cringe on the floor, cradling his knee, and a plan that's been gestating in him for a while comes into sharp view.

He keeps his voice cold. "I can't sleep with _this_."

"I agree," Hurts replies, standing over Jason, lips curling in disgust as he looks down at him. "My sincerest regrets."

The boy rolls out of the way before the cane hits him a second time, in what is not a bad maneuver. But that only earns him a jab with the charged end, and he screams hideously when it jolts through him.

"Get out," his handler growl, "I'll deal with you later. Get _out_."

Jason slowly staggers to his feet, shooting both men a glare full of hatred and fear, collects his shirt, and then limps out as fast as his gangly legs will carry him. By the time the door closes behind him, Hurt is massaging the bridge of his nose.

"How much money do I have to pay you _not_ to beat that boy later?" Bruce asks him.

Hurt reacts with a curt laugh. "You still don't seem to understand," he says softly. " No money in the _world_ could keep me from beating that boy."

He now looks entirely displeased with how the evening has been going. It's clear that he feels his honor as a businessman at stake. Good. He'll probably agree to anything now. 

Bruce puts a hand on his shoulder. "Show me the feral one."

– 

It's when they stand side by side in front of a rust-stained door in the damp, moldy basement when Hurt shakes his head at him.

"You're a man of peculiar tastes," he says, a sense of doubt in his voice. "And I hope I don't have to tell you that I won't cover for _any_ injuries you might sustain."

"Need me to sign a waiver?" Bruce quips. 

Hurt cracks a sourly smile at that. "Yes, I'm _sure_ you gave me your real name, Mr Grey."

Bruce returns his smile.

"I'm a trained martial artist," he then assures him. He hasn't planned on disclosing that information, but he figures it won't matter in a short while. "The boy is, what, the same age as the others? I believe I can handle him."

Their voices echo through the narrow corridor. It's eerily quiet on the other side of the door. You would not expect a living creature behind it.

"I'd prefer for you to be right," his host mutters, before he puts the key into the lock, and turns it.

The metal door swings open with a wailing creak. Bruce instinctively braces himself for someone coming at him from either side, and he can tell from the way Hurt ducks his head that he thinks the same thing; but it doesn't happen. The dark, clammy room looks empty at first. But then, he spots a movement out of the corner of his eye.

The kid is crouching at the furthermost corner of the room like a frightened animal. He's naked except for a pair of ragged leather pants. His back is pressed against the cold wall, his breaths escaping him in flat, shallow intervals, and Bruce can tell that every muscle and every tendon in his slender, filth-covered body is as taut as an arrow on a crossbow, ready to be fired. His eyes are narrow and alert, and then something flashes in them when he sets them on Bruce. He realizes he must be the first human being the boy sees in a while that's not Dr Hurt.

His teeth look stained with something that might be blood when he bares them and hisses, " _Go._ "

"Ah, yes," Hurts says, ignoring the guttural threat of death in the boy's voice. "Forgot to mention. His English isn't very good."

Bruce nods. Not hard to imagine why. On the long list of things Hurt has tried to teach this kid, _language_ probably hadn't been up there.

"He will understand you well enough. However, that doesn't mean he'll _respond_ ," the doctor tells him, "As you can see, he's a little –"

" _Go_ ," the kid hisses again, and Hurt flinches. He tries to act as nonchalantly as ever, but Bruce can tell that he's scared of the boy; as he should be. "Let me get this straight," he whispers quietly to Bruce. "You won't do it with the whipping boy, but _this_ is somehow more your speed."

"It is." Bruce takes off his dinner jacket, and hands it to him. "Hold this."

He approaches slowly, holding the boy's gaze to show that he's not intimidated, but also, that he's not about to do something sudden and stupid. The boy doesn't look away. As unhinged as his eyes are, they possess strength and focus, and Bruce instinctively knows that his handler is wrong, that there is nothing _ruined_ about him.

"No," he barks when he sees the tall stranger come closer. It's not a plea, it's a warning. But it's a desperate one.

Bruce makes a soothing noise in his throat and presents him his open palms. He remembers what Hurt has said about him; that he's tried to make him forget what a gentle touch felt like. The way the boy's body grows even harder while Bruce approaches him is all the confirmation he needs – 

He waits until Bruce is within his reach, then lets out a roar. His slender, nimble legs propel him forward like a speeding bullet. He pounces on the taller man, and Bruce realizes he knows what he's doing when he grabs his face, and slams his thumbs into his eye sockets right away.

It makes his heartbeat freeze for a second, but Bruce is more than capable to handle a blunt attack like that. The kid groans in anger and frustration when Bruce gets a hold on his wrists (they're so small, compared to his) and forces his arms down. He's barely done that when he sees the boy's teeth come at his face next. They chatter and snap inches from his skin and it's clear that the boy is madly determined to destroy anyone who lays a hand on him.

"Easy," Bruce tells him.

The boy is quick and vicious, but with his superior strength and size, Bruce has no trouble overwhelming him. He uses his weight to wrestle him to the ground, and a few moments later, he has him where he wants him; bucking and snarling under his heavy body, his arms pinned and his teeth out of reach and his legs locked between his own.

"Put it down," he grunts at Dr Hurt. He's paid no attention to him, but he doesn't have to look to know he's whipped out his cane. He hears an electrical crackle when the doctor complies.

He's aware of how hoarse his own voice is. He's out of breath, and it's not the exertion from subduing the kid. His pulse rate speeds up. Hot, pounding blood courses through his veins. He stares at the boy's face, and it's rugged, dirty, and gorgeous. Bruce wants to lick the dirt off it.

The truth – and it's too late for anything but the truth – is, he's always wanted to be with a boy like this; someone who's as young and powerful as this, with hot, burning smooth skin and lean, flexible limbs and a fierce mouth. Him, Dick, Jason, Tim, someone exactly like that; he's always craved it. And he'd always known that the moment would come, only he'd never thought it'd come like this. 

But maybe, like this, he could make his sick affliction be good for something. Someone. 

This once.

"Tell me your name," he says to the boy squirming beneath him.

The boy growls and spits in his face.

Hurt seems to actually have to think about it, since he's written this one off already. "Damian," he finally says. "I know, strange, isn't it. One wonders what his parents were thinking."

"Damian," Bruce repeats. He's somehow glad that this is the name his parents gave him, not some slave name that his new owner cooked up. That means the other boy's names are probably their real ones, too.

The boy shivers when he hears his name spoken to him, the hardness on his face breaks, and he looks forlorn for a moment. His body tightens again as Bruce touches his smut-stained cheek, but he doesn't try to grab or bite him, this time. His breath hitches when Bruce runs his fingers over his sensitive throat next. Hurt's education has driven him to the edge of sanity, but it also clearly has left him aching to be touched by a friendly pair of hands.

"Leave me alone with him," Bruce mutters.

Hurt laughs at that. "Oh, under no circumstances would I leave anyone _alone_ with him. Do you have any idea of the trouble it'd be to remove either his dead body or yours from the vicinity? I can't risk that. And besides," his voice turns to a low purr, "I've a feeling I'd like to see this."

"Doesn't matter," Bruce says, even though it does. Right now, he barely notes the doctor's presence in the room anymore, and neither does Damian. His eyes are fixed on Bruce. He glowers, but he looks intrigued, as well; probably because Bruce is both not afraid of him and strong enough to best him, but hasn't tried to torture him yet.

Bruce is not dumb enough to attempt kissing him, even though he wants to. He lets his fingertips ghost across his hard, tensed body. Rough, knotted scars everywhere (Hurt did say he gave him pain), angry blood pulsing beneath the skin. There's a rugged whimper while Damian tries to will himself not to respond to the touch. From what he knows, all that softness can only result in even harsher punishment.

"Ah," he makes, when Bruce reaches his stomach, not far from where his hot naked skin ends and the stained leather begins. His muscles shiver and clench shut. He still looks grim, but it's clear how terrified he is of being touched down there.

"Easy," Bruce tells him again. It's weak, but he doesn't know what else to say.

"Hurt," the boy suddenly says. "Me."

"No."

"Kill." His voice his broken and strained. "You."

"No."

He should be left alone. He deserves to be left alone. But if Bruce leaves him alone now, he knows, chances are no-one's ever going to see this boy again. He bends down to stroke his thick dark hair, and whispers into his ear in Arabic. That's something Hurt doesn't know he can do.

" _I will do something good for you. I promise._ "

Damian perks up at being addressed in his mother tongue, but he remains tense all over, his useless hands balled into fists, when he repeats in the same language, " _You lie._ "

"No," Bruce repeats, in English this time. The boy grimaces in anticipation of the pain and starts struggling again when he unbuttons his pants. His sharp nails claw at Bruce's face and neck, but he lets him. It's all well and good; it's pretty much nothing to him, and it's absolutely nothing compared to the pain that Damian and the other boys endure on a daily basis.

"You need a hand, I can give it," Hurt offers from the sidelines, and he sounds like he really wants to.

"No need," Bruce mutters, disgruntled that he even has to hear that man's voice again.

Damian turns his head to the side to look up at his capturer. "That _thing_ ," he drawls, meaning either the man or the cattle prod, and it's clear that he hates and fears him, but doesn't respect him. Bruce grabs his chin and forces him to look back at him to assert his dominance. "Not him," he growls. "Me." 

The boy shivers, his breath escapes him in a sharp hiss, but he obeys. He even lies still now when Bruce pulls down his pants, revealing his locked-up cock.

Luckily, Hurt has already given him the key. When Bruce frees him from the chastity device he's wearing, the boy softly mewls in pain. He's not hard, but once he's free, he becomes violently aroused so quickly; the slightest touch is enough. Bruce feels his fingers tremble when he realizes how aroused he himself is, too. The whole night has been an exercise in forceful repression, and it all boils over now. His own cock feels rock-hard, itching against the outline of his dress pants. But that's not what this is for.

Damian draws short, panicked breaths, but there's longingful, subdued lust in his voice, too. His cock looks raw and abused, and like it's hurting in places. It'd probably be better to not touch him there at all; Bruce briefly considers massaging his prostate to give him his release, but he shies away from something so intrusive. His mouth is probably softer than his hands are, so he gives him that.

"Don't – " the youth starts, but then his protests die down with a drawn-out groan. His hips are wriggling, moving almost by their own admission, pushing, seeking out the tight, wet heat and teasing tongue. Despite himself, Bruce groans, too. The boy neither smells nor tastes good, which is not surprising considering how he'd been kept, but Bruce has always dreamed of wrapping his lips around something like this, and the rigid heat filling his mouth more than makes up for it. He doesn't dare taking him in full; his cock has clearly been mistreated, and he's afraid of hurting him even further. So he concentrates his efforts on the bulging, sensitive tip, suckling on it and swirling his tongue around it to make the boy remember what pleasure feels like. He's craved this so much he allows himself to let go and just enjoy it for a few moments, humming contently while he tries to tease him to completion. His own erection is throbbing red-hot between his legs. He wants to get himself off, he wants to take out his cock and come all over the writhing body underneath him, but there's a last kernel of restraint that keeps him from it.

Damian makes a noise as if he's going out if his mind, then slams his fists into the cold hard floor in a way that makes them bleed, but he doesn't use them on Bruce, doesn't, _can't_ try to make him stop. He lets out a series of little cries that grow more and more anxious the closer he gets to climaxing. He's holding back to an insane degree for someone his age. It's clear how afraid he is of it. Since he's been brought here, his own dick has been used as something to torment him with, a toy for other people to play with, and that memory is locked in his mind. He's whining, dragging his fingers across the concrete in a way that'll tear his nails out if he doesn't stop soon. But nothing seems worse to him than when Bruce puts a gentle, soothing hand on his belly again; from his perspective, it must be like mockery, as he clearly expects it all to end in pain in a few minutes.

Bruce wants to tell him not to be afraid, but he needs his mouth.

"W-why," the boy stammers, but then he wraps his steely legs around Bruce's head. His body is shaking to its core. "No. No no no no."

Bruce would usually never lay a hand – or his mouth – on someone who says "No", but these are not usual circumstances. He sucks on him so hard as if he was candy, and something almost like triumph washes over him when he feels him reach the point of no return, and forces it out of him. The boy wails in surprise when he finds that he's actually not been lied to.

He shoots up and digs his nails into Bruce's scalp, hard, and comes with a scream that must've been heard around the entire house.

Bruce would've almost liked to feel him in his mouth for a while longer, but he has to move up and catch Damian when it almost seems as if he's passing out. He doesn't, but he drops heavily in his arms, panting, shaking and drenched in sweat. Bruce forgets his own aching arousal and starts cradling him. He closes his eyes and squeezes the slender body in his arms, and when he does, he thinks of all of them, the boy helplessly tied-up in that room up there, the one with the haunted eyes and perfect manners, and the one covered in bruises and burns. And then, Damian's arms are there, wrapping themselves around him, too.

They lie like that for a while. Bruce waits for Damian to stop trembling and catch his breath. He will still need some of it. When the boy looks up at him, his eyes seem mildly dazed from his orgasm, but they also seem calmer than before, no longer clouded by the expectation of pain and a need for a relief that's forever out of his reach. What's more important, there's a twisted sense of wild devotion on his face, because Bruce has given him that. It's clear he would do anything for him now, and seeing it frightens and humbles and thrills the older man.

" _Who are you._ " Damian whispers in his mother tongue, head nestled against his shoulder.

Bruce turns to look at him. " _I am the one who will set you free,_ " he whispers back. " _You and the others._ "

A hint of recognition and affection lights up in Damian's eyes when he mentions them. " _My brothers,_ " he says, and Bruce knows he's made the right choice.

Bruce says nothing, looks up at Dr Hurt, towering in the doorway with his cane by his side, drinking in the sight of them. Damian follows Bruce's gaze. And in that moment, they are one, two minds and bodies united behind the same idea.

"Damian," Bruce says, " _Attack._ "

– 

Three weeks later, and The Orchid is a library now.

Dr Simon Hurt is missing. There's no trace of him. But it doesn't seem like a mystery, really; he'd had quite the reputation, and an unsavory character like that, he could've disappeared to anywhere. He kindly left all his expensive goods behind, though, and Commissioner Gordon decides to auction them off for charity.

Gordon also lets his men look into Hurt's disappearance, but you can't really claim that he's sorely missed. In secret, unbeknownst to the police, certain people miss his boys very much. But they are nowhere to be found.

Meanwhile, Bruce Wayne has four new housemates.

He's told them they could go wherever they wanted, but Tim had rightly pointed out to him that they had no place to go. The system would take them, but Bruce hesitates to drop them where they've been kidnapped from, in the first place. He'll look into the Gotham orphanages until he can be sure such a thing never happens again, first. And he has a very big house.

Alfred, his wise and kind-hearted butler, is thrilled to have them. He's not naïve, he knows they are disturbed boys, because he sees them say and do disturbing things sometimes, but he loves them anyway. He washes their clothes and bakes for them and tries to get them into music and books. Alfred has plenty experience with how to get through to sad, traumatized boys. And after a while, they even stop offering him sexual favors when they realize that's really not why he's doing it.

Dick doesn't trust Bruce, he can tell. Not surprising, considering how they met. Dick has been with Hurt the longest, and he has the hardest time believing that his fate has changed. But he treats Bruce with a sort of respectful, cautious reverence, he's sweet and easy to like, and being around his brothers makes him happy. He has a beautiful laugh, Bruce sometimes hears it when he's with them. Bruce thinks he may have a background in acrobatics or gymnastics, because he practices flips and handstands and somersaults in the Wayne's spacious garden all the time. Nothing seems to give the boy more pleasure than to move around freely.

Jason doesn't trust Bruce, either, but he takes a shine to Alfred, which is a good thing. Once he figures out the butler is not a threat, he takes to hanging around the kitchen with him or help him out with the shopping – walking around the big, colorful market is a treat to him. Alfred shows him things like making a roast, or cupcakes with icing for the others. Jason really takes to it. Focusing on these productive, manual tasks occupies his fingers and seems to help take his mind off the life he's left behind. He doesn't trust Bruce, but he seems to decide he doesn't hate him, either, which is enough for now.

Tim is still a virgin, and he will stay that way until he decides otherwise, which might be a long time. He likes being in the company of his brothers, too, but he also follows Bruce around the house like a puppy. They don't really talk a whole lot, but he seems to like sitting quietly in a corner with a book or with headphones on while Bruce is working. Bruce would like to think that it's affection, but it's probably that Tim has decided he feels safe in his presence, which means a lot, really. One time he asks him if he can sleep in his bed with him, but Bruce kindly tells him no. Having them all around the house gives him a harsh case of blue balls as it is.

Damian is a dangerous boy, but he's not dangerous to his brothers. The others seem to have a calming effect on him, and he enjoys being kind to them and being rewarded with kindness in return. He learns English quickly, because like the others, he's incredibly sharp when he's allowed to. Bruce trains him in martial arts in an effort to grant him a useful outlet for his anger. And yes, sometimes they end up grinding on each other, because that barrier has already been broken. Damian is very direct in showing him that he wants it, though it still feels wrong. However, as long as he leaves their training sessions with flushed cheeks and a wicked grin on his dark face, Bruce can't quite bring himself to stop.

He sometimes wants to train the others, too, but he's not sure how that would go over.

He's perceptive enough to know that sometimes, they do it with each other in various combinations. He assumes it's not a bad thing for them to explore these things in a way that isn't forced on them, and they never seem to hurt each other, either. It occupies his imagination a little more than it probably should, but he doesn't pry into it. What they also like to do, and that makes him smile for a change, is sleep together in a huddled pile on one big bed, arms tossed around each other. They're very different, and sometimes they fight, but they do seem to feel a sense of security when they're together that no-one has been able to destroy.

Bruce is not really sure what to do with them, what the future will hold. He can give them an education, he can probably find a discreet psychiatrist to work with them, too. But he's not convinced that he really is the right guardian for them. Actually, he's sure he isn't; but they seem to like it well enough.

Sometimes, he gets that strange idea in his head that he could train them to become detectives like he is, because they're smart boys, good boys. He could teach them how to prevent others from getting hurt in the way they were. His own little squad of detectives. It seems insane, but it makes his chest swell every time he thinks about it.


End file.
